


dozen missed calls

by shatou



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Gen, Lots of projection so be warned, Much of this is wish fulfillment, Platonic Love, also Capital P Platonic love, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26424988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Anakin, fourteen years old, is unsure and afraid.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 17
Kudos: 117





	dozen missed calls

The infirmary door opens. Anakin doesn’t turn around. His eyes remain staunchly fixed to the pale piece of the sky outside the window. He knows who’s there; he has felt the calls and knocking since the healers carted him to the healing halls, has sensed the presence all the way down from the corridor. Obi-Wan doesn’t often open up his mental shields so plainly, and yet this time Anakin refuses to let down his own walls in turn. He has a fair guess of what’s on the other side - probably annoyance, probably another lecture that’s going to stream directly into his cerebrum, so why should he?

The soft, muted clacks of worn soles against granite floor evens out into silence. All that’s left is a light rustling of fabric as Obi-Wan shifts, and Anakin still refuses to turn around. His Padawan braid hangs over his collarbone, tickling bare skin when he shifts a little. There are bacta patches on his chest and bandages around his waist. Nothing serious overall; nothing he wants to speak of. 

“I was not able to reach you,” his Master says. His voice is quiet.

Anakin mumbles something that sounds like a half close-lipped _Yeah_. There’s a dozen missed calls or so, some of which he deliberately ignored even as the thing was buzzing on his belt.

“Padawan,” he sounds worn. Anakin wills himself not dwell on that. “Why did you answer neither my comm calls nor my messages?”

 _Many, many reasons,_ Anakin thinks acridly. He thinks of all the times Obi-Wan asks him for rundowns of what he has done so far, all the long-winded instructions that Obi-Wan tends to give, all the ‘advice’ laced with criticisms, all the _Be prudent_ and _Patience_ and— He doesn’t want to answer. He’s _sick_ of it, and he’s going to wrap himself in unyielding silence until Obi-Wan is sick of it as well.

Obi-Wan, however, is much more persistent than that. “A simple message would have sufficed.” He pauses, taking a step closer.

Anakin doesn’t budge. He knows where this would go. Lectures on responsibilities; comparisons to a nameless, faceless ideal of a Jedi; reminders of his Force-damned _destiny_ . He wants to say, _Go away,_ but he doesn’t find it in him to do so. He’s not sure if he is only unenthusiastic about the consequences of being so bluntly disrespectful, or if, deep down, he’s reluctant to face himself once he has upsetted Obi-Wan. He’s greatly annoyed by it nonetheless.

“If you have little regard for your own wellbeing, then perhaps consider heeding how concerned you would make others feel. At least you could have feel a responsibility to—“

Anakin whips around. “Well then stop _worrying_ about me!”

Their gazes cross paths, and Anakin sees the lines under his Master’s eyes, the deep creases between his brows, the loose strands of sweat-matted hair that hang over his forehead in stark unusuality to the impeccable coiffure that he has always maintained. Anakin scowls; his eyes fall to his own hands.

“I never asked you to worry about me,” he mutters, biting the inside of his mouth to keep the honorific to himself. _Master, Master, Master,_ he’s said it so often, clung to it so desperately for anchorage, for some sense of belonging. Who else does he still have? He’s not allowed to be attached - not to the memories of his mother, his poor mother still in the claws of the likes of Watto - so here, how could he not latch onto this perfect, pristine Jedi who proclaimed to take charge of him? But now, right now, it’s respect that he doesn’t want to give.

“That is impossible,” Obi-Wan says, unflappable. Anakin’s brows furrow deeper; his throat feels tight. How unfair - why is Obi-Wan so unaffected when Anakin can’t even hide his burning face and this stinging sensation in his eyes, in his nose? “I will feel concerned for you no matter what.”

“Why, because I’m your responsibility? Because it will look bad if your Padawan makes another mistake, right?” He narrows his eyes, glaring up from below his lashes. _Has Obi-Wan ever even_ wanted _a Padawan? He’s just doing Qui-Gon’s bidding, isn’t he?_ “I get that it’s a _bother_ to worry about me, yeah.”

“Whatever gave you the idea—“

“You want to feel like you’ve done everything right as a Master, don’t you? Sure, now it is _my_ responsibility to reassure you that _you’re_ always perfect!” His voice rises, and wavers, and cracks. “My injuries inconvenience you. I know! Just say so!”

The reverberations of his words bounce back from the walls, line the air between them, thicken the silence into a deafening consistency. Anakin’s shoulders rise and fall as if he’s winded. He doesn’t dare to look up. It isn’t that he’s afraid. The weight of those words, few as they are, exhausts him. 

“I…” Obi-Wan begins, pauses, and the mattress dips as he lowers himself beside Anakin. Anakin doesn’t flinch, nor does he scoot away. He’s too prideful to, maybe; or he misses the feeling of warmth, but whyever would he admit that? “Anakin, I apologize.”

Anakin snaps his head up, wide-eyed, tongue-tied, knuckles blanched. Slowly, Obi-Wan’s hand slides over his shoulders and settles, not putting any weight on it, just covering it with warmth. His Master gives their bond another small tug, wrapping his signature with the sort of tender promises that remind Anakin of blinking stars on velvety darkness beyond a viewport, of breezes in his hair on an off day. His mental walls tug down on its own, giving in to the gentleness.

Tingling anxiousness rolls up against his psyche in little nudges. Below them, worries scatter in past, passing thoughts, _I hope he is alright_ , and then, _Would that I could keep him by my side at all times_. Relief has threaded through them all already, but Anakin feels with utmost clarity the pinpricks of urge, Obi-Wan’s urge, to envelop him, to shield him. In the molten core of it all, affection blooms, bright and fierce. Obi-Wan does not act on it.

“I did not want to treat you like a child,” whispers Obi-Wan. Anakin’s eyes are still closed. If he opens them, tears will spill, and he can’t stand that. “Anakin, you do not inconvenience me. I apologize, that I made you feel so. I’m worried about you, because I care about you.”

“You’re too perfect, Master,” Anakin says hoarsely. Whatever fire in him has been extinguished. Now that he can no longer justify his anger, can no longer blame Obi-Wan for his frustrations, he feels small and foolish and deeply, deeply ashamed. “Too perfect, for me. I lack, too much. I can’t...”

“My Padawan,” Obi-Wan breathes, pulling him closer. Now Anakin can sense the tremble and uncertainty from his Master as well, both within their bond and without. An apology perches below his chin. He’s not ready to lay down his pride for it yet. “Not so, Anakin. I am flawed. My worst oversight as of late, is that I have left you to feel this way. I was not aware, but now I am. And I am sorry.” 

Anakin draws in a breath. It sounds too much like a sob for his liking. He drops his head and presses his face into the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck, hiding in his skin. Gentle fingers card into his cropped hair. “You do not have to reassure me of anything pertaining to myself, young one,” he continues. His voice is so smooth, so soft, so solemn and sounding like home. “I have always appreciated your honesty. When I ask you how you feel, it is because I care about how you feel, not because I want to hear that I’ve been doing a good job keeping you happy. Do you trust me?”

Anakin nods, a muffled _Yes_ against robes and skin. He’s relieved, he’s overwhelmed with warmth and mirth, but he glimpses the shadows of guilt on Obi-Wan’s side of the bond, webbed over his gentle light. Shame cuts him deep. His finger curls down, bunched in Obi-Wan’s robes. _I love you_ , the sentiment - rather than verbal words - spread in his chest, warming him up. Now he doesn’t think of the lectures and the judgment anymore; now he thinks of a warm embrace over cold nightmare sweat, of a hummed lullaby as his Master soothes him to sleep. He can try to blame Obi-Wan for this and that, but he can’t deny what his Master has done for him, always. _I love you._ “...I’m sorry, Master.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “I accept, though I do not fault you.” His arms circle around Anakin now, snug and secure and sound. “We have much to learn, together.”


End file.
